Heart of The Storm
by Nadin4400
Summary: "No," she's twisting his shirt in her hands holding onto it so tight her knuckles turned white. "In the paddock… before you came to the control room… I thought she ate you." The incident hit Claire harder than she'd expected. Luckily, she's not alone. Clawen. One-shot.


**Author's note:** It was supposed to be a 1k something, tops, but then it got out of control, so... Also, I CAN'T WAIT TILL IT'S 2018 because CLAWEN! Agh!

Inspired by Something More by Secondhand Serenade, mostly.

* * *

 _The storm is rolling in_  
 _The thunder's loud, it hurts my ears_  
 _I'm paying for my sins_  
 _And it's gonna rain for years and years._

 _"Something More" by Secondhand Serenade_

The evacuation is a mess, although compared to the chaos that erupted when the Pteranodons attacked the resort it is almost as smooth and organized as a preschoolers' trip to a museum.

They sort the people into groups – the injured (much less numerous than Claire had expected, all things considered), the park guests, and the Masrani Global and InGen employees. Being one of the high-ranked officials, she has no choice but to stay behind until everyone else is safely off the dinosaur hunting grounds.

Karen, Scott, and the boys leave on the first ferry because there's a flight to Madison waiting for them, and even though Claire is THIS close to giving in to Karen's persistent _I think I should stay_ , she's relieved to have them off the island and on the way to the mainland where nothing can hurt them again. Well, nothing prehistoric, but she shoves that thought away and keeps her smile light and bright until they disappear from her view, only allowing her shoulders to sag and her face to fall when no one can see her. Her fingers clutch the blanket that someone gave her hours ago like it's a lifeline. Like it can keep her in one piece for as long as she holds on to it. The air is hot and humid but she can't stop shaking.

It's been a few hours, and the events of the past day and a half are finally catching up with Claire. It's a miracle she can still stand, leave alone function like a normal human being. Okay, half-function, but it still requires more strength than she ever knew she possessed. She has never been this exhausted and world-weary in her entire life, and deep down she hopes she never will be again.

When someone approaches her asking her to please board now because the last ferry with the civilians will be leaving shortly, it almost catches Claire off-guard – at some point between then and now, she started to believe this nightmare would never end.

She's lost Owen a while ago when his help was required with something or another, and her eyes keep scanning the thinning crowd automatically, hoping to catch sight of him again. He could have left, she tells herself. He should have, for that matter. Her chest tightens at this idea, but she doesn't allow herself to dwell on it as she follows the uniformed man to the marina on wobbling legs, wishing to take off her goddamn shoes and throw them into the ocean just for the hell of it. If she's lucky, she won't collapse in the next 3 minutes.

Masrani Global is as efficient as ever, and there's a hotel room waiting for her on the mainland. Claire is not delusional about it – she knows they will need her for the post-incident clean up, and the accommodation is the least they can provide her with after everything she's done on Isla Nublar – both as the Park Operations Manager, and as someone who decided to race the goddamn T-Rex when everything else failed spectacularly.

She doesn't think about it though. Not now. Not when the only thing she actually _can_ think about is a hot shower and any horizontal surface she could use as a bed for a very, very long time. God, she could probably sleep for at least a week.

What she doesn't expect to see upon arrival at the hotel is a familiar leather vest-clad back the moment she steps into the lobby and the cool air hits her skin. She skids to a halt as though hitting an invisible wall and her throat closes up, making it hard to breathe by the second.

He's arguing about something with the front desk manager, but the place is too crowded and too loud for Claire to catch anything beside _"…I need a room number"_ and _"…not at liberty to provide … about our guests…"_ , and even then she's not sure it is addressed to Owen or the woman standing beside him, looking mildly frantic. Come to think of it, everyone around her looks frantic, and she realizes if a little belatedly that this entire hotel is probably stuffed to the brim with people who just lived through their worst nightmare.

The thought makes her want to spin around and start running until she's not suffocating anymore, until the invisible hand squeezing her lungs loosens its grip and lets her breathe properly again. Fight or flight. Fight or flight… Definitely flight!

As if on cue, Owen turns around, his jaw set tight and his brows drawn together. He looks like he is going to tear this whole place down, brick by brick - the same way he looked a moment before his fist met Hoskins's face (which she was grateful for at the moment because if he didn't do it, she definitely would).

He spots her then – maybe half a second later, at most – and his features relax instantly. He strides towards her, dodging the people and maneuvering his way around the luggage carts and numerous suitcases strewn all over the foyer, his eyes never leaving her face. She's not sure he blinks once. Not sure she does either.

And then he's suddenly standing right before her, and even though Claire might have played this conversation in her head a time or two – okay, fifteen – she suddenly can't remember how the words work, and all she can do is swallow and stare and hope he can't hear her escalated heartbeat. (Ha! Fat chance! Everyone in a five-mile radius can hear it, she's certain of that.)

"Hey," Owen breathes out, the corner of his mouth tugs up forming into a half smile, and does he really have to look so damn radiant by the second?

"Hey," Claire echoes, for lack of better ideas.

He clears his throat. "I was-They told me you'd be staying here, but I didn't know if you've already checked in or…" he trails off and clears his throat again.

"I haven't." Good. Okay. They're talking. About the _hotel_ , but it's something. "I was just about to."

He looks at her for a few moments, then nods. "Good. I mean, I just wanted to make sure—sorry I disappeared." He runs his hand through his hair, grimacing a little. "I had to—"

"It's fine," Claire reassures him quickly. It's not like she doesn't know what crisis can be like. It's not like he had to babysit her or anything.

Owen nods again (and what the hell is it with all the nodding?) before his gaze goes all apprehensive and he gives her a proper once-over. "Are you okay?"

Which sounds ridiculous, and they both know it. The honest answer would be something like, _"I don't think I'll be able to sleep for the rest of my life, and I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting the Indominus Rex to appear from around any corner, and all of this makes my skull want to explode,"_ but Claire musters a weak smile nonetheless – because her only other option is screaming at the top of her lungs, and it sounds like something that would be frowned upon in this particular situation.

"Sure. There's nothing a hot shower and some sleep can't fix," she responds rather dismissively (as if it's nothing; as if she actually believes it), and God help her, but she can swear he sighs with relief.

"Well, I guess is should leave you to it then."

Except he doesn't move, not right away, and when he does, Claire calls out his name, making him stop in his tracks. "Are you staying over here, too?"

Owen's eyes flicker towards to front desk and he winces a bit, rubbing his neck. "They seem to be a bit overbooked, but I'll figure something out." A pause. "Barry's gotta be around here somewhere, so…"

"Or you could stay with me," she blurts out before her mind even registers that she's saying it out loud.

And this is how she ends up standing under the scalding hot spray of water that beats unapologetically against the cuts on her arms and legs and her blisters on her feet all but making Claire whimper while she is acutely aware of Owen's presence on the other side of the door – and for a moment or two it feels like too much to deal with. Until the grime and blood and the foul smell is gone, her skin is scrubbed raw, and her hair is twig-free, and she's half a step closer to feeling like a human being again.

Claire wants to feel noble – like a bigger person, the kind of person who would offer a friend (is this what they are now?) to stay with her when he has nowhere else to go, but there is no point in lying to herself, and the truth is she doesn't want to be alone. Which is selfish. Which probably makes her even more awful than she already thinks she is, and so she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to push the thought away. Tries to ignore the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach because this is exactly the kind of thing she can't even begin to process at the moment.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of magnolia-scented steam, Owen, who has already showered (because _No, really, you go first, I've got to make a phone call_ ) is flipping through the TV channels without stopping on any of them for longer than a second or two. He's changed into a plain white tee and grey sweatpants – compliments of the Masrani Global, she imagines. Another neatly folded set of clothes is waiting for her on the bed.

He flicks the TV off when she enters the room and is up on his feet in one fluid motion, his eyes searching her face for…. Claire can't quite imagine what. She does her best to keep it as blank as possible.

"Hey, they dropped those off while you were in the bathroom," Owen's eyes flicker towards the clothes, and she nods a bit numbly, somewhat grateful in the back of her mind for not having to sleep in a bathrobe. "And if you're hungry..."

He trails off as her glance darts towards the room service plates on the coffee table. It's been a while. She should be ravenous. Instead, her stomach coils uneasily and she shakes her head. He doesn't press.

What she notices next is that he has already found a spare blanket in the closet and grabbed one of the pillows from the bed to settle on the couch for the night.

In between the washing the grime of the past couple of days off of her body and focusing on not having a breakdown, Claire hasn't had a chance to contemplate their sleeping arrangements, and truth be told, she should be grateful that the chivalry is not dead, and he hadn't assumed that sharing the room equaled… something else. And, goddammit, in any other circumstances, she'd be relieved beyond imaginable to have that issue sorted out, but somehow it makes her heart sink instead.

She doubts the disappointment is particularly clear on her face, but something must be because Owen takes a step forward, and there's nothing but the stack of clothes she's hugging to her chest between them now. He reaches his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her face for a moment or two longer than necessary, and she doesn't mind – she doesn't mind one bit.

"It's going to be okay," Owen says softly, and they both know it's a lie – how can anything ever be okay? People died, and this memory will haunt them forever, but she wants to believe him. She wants to believe him so bad.

She nods, unable to tear her eyes off him and opens her mouth to respond, but then her phone lets out a string of demanding high-pitched shrills, starling them both, and the moment is gone.

"I've got to—"

"Sure."

Owen pushes past her and into the bathroom. She changes quickly while he brushes his teeth promptly ignoring the call – _because she JUST had to live through the worst day of her life, so they can probably deal without her for the next few hours, thank you very much!_ The shirt is a bit too big, hanging loose on her frame, and the sweatpants are riding low on her hips because whoever chose the clothes for them didn't bother with the sizes. Not that she cares.

She slips under the covers, and by the time Owen comes out of the bathroom, she's almost convinced herself that her sleep-faking skills aren't as bad as she thought they'd be.

Owen doesn't pause, not even for a heartbeat (not that she wanted him to). The lights go out almost instantly. There's a minute or two of his settling on the couch – he fluffs the pillow, adjusts his blanket, finds the comfortable spot. The couch frame creaks slightly under his weight. And then there's nothing, only the blackness enveloping them and the softest rumble of the mini fridge breaking the silence.

Claire thought she'd slip into a heavy slumber the moment her head touched the pillow. On the boat from Isla Nublar to Costa Rica, she could barely keep her eyes open. But now she is suddenly more awake than she's ever been in her life, her mind on fire.

It's going to be insane – the legal ramifications of the incident, the interviews, dealing with the press. Her face is already all over the news, and it'll only get worse in the days (weeks? months?) to come. There will be hearings and testimonies, and even though she's about 80% sure she can't be held liable for what had happened because, technically, the Indominus Rex wasn't her idea, she's still one of the top managers that should have been able to foresee the catastrophe and stopped it from happening, and the reporters will be at each other's throats fighting for the right to shake her dirty laundry on every corner.

She refuses to think of any of this. It's still too big, it's too much, and she already has at least 5 messages in her inbox from the Masrani Global lawyers warning her not to open her mouth in front of the press – which she also can't think about yet. That, and the guilt that's eating her up on the inside. Because she _was_ responsible. Because people _died_. Because she had to have found a way to not let it happen.

Earlier, she dialed Zara's number, and it wasn't until her voice asked Claire in a soft British accent to please leave a message and she will call her back right away that the reality settled in and she remembered that Zara was dead, and that maybe this voicemail greeting was the only thing left of her.

The realization hit her like a sucker punch, leaving Claire all but doubled over and gasping for air. She didn't make the Indominus. Didn't ask for it to be made. But what does it matter? It was her goddamn job to make sure that everyone in the park was safe, and she failed in the worst possible way. And she knows that even after the lawsuits are settled and the press has something else to entertain themselves with, she will have to live with this guilt for the rest of her life. But at least she'll get to _live_ , unlike several hundred people whose only fault was not choosing Hawaii for their Christmas vacation, and this thought makes Claire want to scream.

She lets out a soft breath and bites her lip until she can taste the blood in her mouth. She's crying silently, unable to hold back the tears anymore, unable to keep on being strong – it's been too long, but now the fear is coming in one tidal wave after another, threatening to drown her and bury her under its weight. She could have died. _Zach and Gray_ could have died. Karen trusted her. God, she trusted her to take care of them, and Claire couldn't keep them safe for even one day.

Running from the Indominus Rex through the jungle searching for her nephews was scary. Thinking about it now is downright terrifying

And Owen…

Claire presses her face deeper into the pillow and squeezes her eyes so tight it hurts because _Owen_ —

He's risked his life to help her, and she doesn't know how to live with that.

It isn't anything specific that wakes Owen a little while later so much as the feeling that something is terribly wrong, his instincts kick in before his mind is even awake. He's disoriented for a moment or two, his brain trying to piece together the smell of the hotel linens, the feeling of the cool air coming from the open patio door on his face, the uncomfortable softness of the couch cushions beneath his body because the bed in his bungalow was so much firmer. For a moment, he's willing to blame his unease on the dream he doesn't remember save for the fact that it felt black and heavy, leaving his mind more exhausted than it was before he fell asleep, but it's not that either.

And then he is suddenly fully awake and as alert as he can be because-

 _Claire_ …

Panicking, Owen tumbles off the couch, tripping over the blanket twisted around his legs and nearly crushing onto the flimsy coffee table. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he crosses the room in two swift steps, his legs moving of the will of their own. The next moment, he's crouched by the bed, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of her trembling shoulders and the sound of her suppressed sobbing and his mind helpfully offering him a full range of the worst-case scenarios.

"Claire," Owen whispers, reaching for her but almost pulling his hand back as if his touch could break her or something. His heart aches to see her like this, curled into a small ball of misery. And goddammit, they don't teach you that stuff in the army, and he wishes they would. "Claire? What is it? Hey, it's okay, it's over." He pulls gently at her shoulder.

She lifts her tear-stained face from the pillow, blinking in confusion for a moment. "C'mere." Owen draws her close, and she wraps her arms around his neck, holding on to him with heartbreaking desperation and no longer trying to conceal her crying, her body shaking all over.

"It's okay," Owen repeats quietly, pressing his lips to her temple for a moment. He's not even sure she's hearing him. "Come on, scooch over." He slips into bed next to her, leaning his back against the headboard, and pulls Claire up and close against his chest.

Her arms slide down from around his neck and are trapped between their bodies now, fingers curled around the fistfuls of his shirt. She tucks her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of soap, the peppermint toothpaste, and something that is purely Owen. His body radiates enough heat to send global warming into a cardiac arrest, but Claire can't stop shivering, unable to get warm – not even after the goddamned shower that nearly melted her skin off.

"Shhh," Owen breathes out, his lips grazing her hair, and his small gesture is so full of affection she thinks it'll snap her in two.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out against his skin. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. It's over now."

It's not, and never will be, and she doesn't believe she deserves to even begin to imagine it.

"I thought you were dead," Claire whispers almost inaudibly.

"It was just a dream," Owen replies softly.

"No," she's twisting his shirt in her hands holding onto it so tight her knuckles turned white. "In the paddock… before you came to the control room… I thought she ate you."

Owen stiffens at the memory of that visit, of the rage bubbling inside of him, of watching the Asset Control Unit being tossed around like rag dolls and ripped to pieces one by one, and the fear fills him again – something primal, something he knows will never go away for good for as long as he's alive. And then…

 _Shit!_ He didn't have a walkie-talkie. She couldn't have known he made it out alive – just barely so, but still! She couldn't have known until she saw him walk out of that goddamn elevator right before the ACU massacre began. She really did think he was dead then. And his chest tightens as he thinks about it because for just a moment, he sees himself in her place, and it hurts so unbearably to even begin to imagine what he would've felt if he thought she was killed.

"God, Claire," he murmurs, running his hand soothingly up and down her arm.

"I thought you were never coming back."

 _And here I spent the past few months thinking you didn't care_ , he thinks, and his lips twitch a little as the warmth begins to settle in his stomach. And maybe it's a selfish thing to think, and maybe the timing is wrong, and maybe he has no right to feel that way because it's not exactly a picnic in the park kind of situation they're dealing with, but God help him if this small revelation doesn't make him fucking ecstatic.

Except she's still crying, and he can feel her tears burning his skin, and he has never felt more helpless in his entire life. The Indominus Rex he could face, raptors he could deal with, but the sight of Claire being so broken is miles away anything he's ever been prepared to face. To hell with the genetic experiments – up until a few hours ago, the scariest thing on Isla Nublar wasn't a blood-thirsty hybrid, or a 20-something-year old T-Rex. It was a very pissed off Claire Dearing, and everyone – EVERYONE – in the park knew that. Hell, half of the staff would've much rather thrown themselves into the pool with Mosasurus than gotten in her way when she was on a mission.

But now he would quite literally jump into a volcano if only it meant he'd never have to see her cry like this again. Not in this lifetime, or the next one. If only it meant she'd never be this small, and fragile, and lost.

"It's over. You're safe, and I swear nothing is going to get you." He runs his fingers through her hair, wavy and still slightly damp after the shower, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, then to her forehead, needing her so desperately to believe him. "It's going to be okay."

Claire turns her face up, and just like that, his lips brush against hers. She whimpers quietly – in surprise or protest, he is not sure, and Owen starts pulling away, but she cranes her neck and tightens her grip on him, making him stay right where he is, her lips opening to his. And so he slips his fingers into her hair again, cupping her head while his other hand slides down her back, pulling her closer.

Claire gasps against his mouth when his fingers run along the stripe of bare skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pants, her head spinning for all the best reasons. Her blood is running boiling-hot in her veins, and there's a small voice in of her head telling her that it's probably natural to feel the way she is feeling, stress and near-death experience considered, but it's probably not the best idea to act on it. She ignores it without hesitation. All logic and common sense be damned – she needs so desperately to feel alive.

"Claire…" Owen mouths almost soundlessly when they pull apart, breathless.

She leans her forehead against his, her eyes fluttering closed as she fights to keep her thoughts together (which is a lost cause, and so she opts for the next best thing). "I need you."

In near complete darkness, Owen's eyes are huge and black, and they pull her in, and there's not enough air in the room, and she can't think—

He frames her face with his hands, his lips finding hers again – this time there's no rush, only the desperation simmering right under the surface. He runs his hands down her arms, deepening the kiss when he feels her shiver under his touch. Her fingers tug at his shirt, and he pulls it off before tossing it to the floor and helping Claire out of hers.

"You sure about this?" He asks in a low, hoarse voice, trailing his lips from her temple to her jawline and down her neck because if she changes her mind in a minute, he would probably die. Her breathing is still uneven and he can taste the salt of tears on her skin.

Without answering, Claire pulls him down, meeting his mouth in a mind-searing kiss.

xoox

Owen presses his lips to the tender spot behind Claire's ear. "I wanted to do it since you showed up ridiculously overdressed to what was supposed to be a casual date," he whispers.

Claire, molded into his side, tucks her face into the crook of his neck. "Is that so, Mr. Grady?"

"No, before that even," he continues thoughtfully. "Ever since you came to the raptors' paddock for the first time – again, _criminally_ overdressed - and made my guys reconsider the concept of fear."

"Now you're just flattering me," she snorts into his skin, making him chuckle.

"I thought I'd have a heart attack when you decided to climb the catwalk in those absurd heels of yours—"

"Excuse me, they were Jimmy Choos!"

"You know, if you told me they were Baskin Robbins, I wouldn't know the difference." He curls his palm around hers. And then, "Wait, are we back to _Mr. Grady_ again? Although I've got to admit that right now it sounds kinda hot."

"Please tell me you didn't start this mayhem just to get me into your bed," she deadpans.

"Well, I think technically it's your bed." Claire tries to swat at him, all righteous indignation, but Owen catches her hand and brings it up to his mouth, kissing her fingers one after another. "And to answer your question – no, but I would if I knew it'd get me here this easily instead of, I don't know, gathering the courage to ask you out again, or something."

Claire groans quietly, leaning her forehead against his collarbone, and Owen is about 90% sure he can hear her mutter _You're unbelievable, Grady_ under her breath, and he suppresses the urge to say _Thank you_ because it is most definitely anything but a compliment.

She goes quiet then, and Owen feels that something has shifted and there's a new undercurrent of tension in the air. "Hey, you okay?" He asks quietly.

Claire inhales sharply. "I'm sorry about your raptors," she breathes out, and Owen's muscles go rigid instinctively of the will of their own.

"I'm sorry about your park." His fingers start drawing soothing circles on her back. "It wasn't your fault, Claire. You haven't made any of those decisions. You were just following the orders."

"But if I didn't—"

"Then someone else would. Probably someone who wouldn't risk their life playing cat and mouse with the T-Rex to save everyone else on this island."

The way he says it – like she's some kind of a hero – makes Claire swallow past the lump forming in her throat. It makes her heart constrict, and she squeezes her eyes shut wiling herself not to think about it. Maybe in a thousand years, but not yet.

She's no hero. She's never been more horrified in her entire life, and Claire's not sure it can be qualified as heroic, all things considered. She had one job – to keep the people safe – and now some of them are going home in the coffins. There's a scream building up in her chest, and something tells her it's not going to go away anytime soon. But right now, there's a steady rhyme of Owen's heartbeat under her cheek, and it helps her not go crazy.

 _One-two-three._

 _Inhale._

 _Four-five-six._

 _Exhale._

 _Repeat._

She's safe.

"Mr. Masrani…" Claire speaks, "He actually believed in John Hammond's vision. He wanted to give the world something unique and wondrous. He never meant for any of this to happen."

 _And look where it got him_ , she doesn't say, but it hangs in the air between them. _Look where it got Hammond, too_.

"There will always be people with big ideas, and the people who will take those ideas and twist them into something unrecognizable." Owen brushed her hair out of her eyes tucking it behind her ear. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "You know where you stand, and it matters a whole damn lot." _Inhale. Exhale._ "It's going to be fine. I know it sounds stupid and meaningless right now, but I swear to God it will. Not at once, and probably not tomorrow, but one day you will wake up and the world will be spinning in the right direction again." His fingers keep playing with her hair. "And until then, you're not alone."

She tilts her head, turning to look at him. "Are there any shortcuts?"

His lips stretch into a contemplative smile, and Claire feels warm all over, her heart suddenly going a mile per second. Like he's not even a human. Like he's sunshine - sunshine with the gravitational pull of Jupiter, and there's no way for her to break away. Not that she wants to.

Owen dips his head, his lips just a breath away from hers. "I think we could think of something."

And then she's falling, falling, falling…

xoox

Claire wakes up at dawn, just when the sky starts going from grey to purple to pink. Her eyes are raw from crying and lack of sleep, feeling like she has just spent hours shoving handfuls of sand into them. She rubs them in a desperate attempt to make it go away, fully aware of the futility of her attempt. It's disorienting, and she tries to remember if she has a morning meeting scheduled. No, not a meeting. It's a conference call with the investors to discuss the Indom-

It hits her then, the events in the park, Zach and Grey running off, the Indominus-Rex.

 _Owen_.

Claire rolls over, reaching blindly for the warmth of his body, but the other side of the bed is empty and cold.

"Owen?" She blinks sleepily, panicking and unsure of which scenario terrifies her more – that Owen took off in the dead of the night, or that he has never been here at all, and after the events of the last couple of days she wouldn't be all that surprised to find out that she has somehow hallucinated the past few hours altogether.

She kicks off the covers, then picks up a t-shirt from the floor and throws it on. The door to the patio is half-open and the curtains are swaying in the light morning breeze that smells of the salt seawater. She grabs the comforter from the chair – because Central America or not, but the mornings can be chilly here, and she can feel goosebumps rising on her arms – and wraps it around her shoulders before padding across the room, her gait muted by the thick carpet.

And sure enough, he's sitting in one of the wicker chairs staring at the ocean below, dressed in only his sweats and a tee, seemingly not at all bothered by the cool air. His hair is rumpled and messy, his brows pulled together, and there's nothing Claire wants to do more than to reach out and smooth that frown away with her fingers.

Owen looks up when he catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, his features relaxing upon seeing her. Claire steps out onto the patio, the tiled floor cold beneath her bare feet.

"Hey," she smiles, relieved on more levels than she'll ever dare to admit.

"Did I wake you?" Owen scrubs a tied hand down his face. "Sorry."

"No," Claire shakes her head. "It wasn't that. Did you sleep at all?"

She takes in the dark circles under his eyes, the way he grimaces at her question, and they both know he doesn't need to say anything – the answer is written all over him. Instead, he catches the edge of the comforter and pulls Claire closer and into his lap, slipping his arms around her, his lips press to the side of her head.

"Not alone, remember?" Claire reminds him as she relaxes into him, melting into his body, her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

She can feel the storm coming – metaphorically speaking. The one with the cameras flashing in her face, and the tears of the families of the diseased, with the lawsuits, and everyone asking the one question she couldn't answer – _How could they let it happen?_

Every time she closes her eyes, she can hear the screams of the ACU team and the crunch of their bones under the teeth of the Indominus Rex, and Claire knows it's not going to go away anytime soon, if ever. She wants to block it out, but her mind helpfully supplies her with the memories she didn't even know she had – the blood dripping on the forest leaves, so loud in the brief moments of consuming silence, the screech of metal when the Indominus pushed the jeep she and Owen were hiding behind into the wall, the ground shaking beneath her feet under the weight of the T-Rex.

An involuntary shudder runs through her body, and Owen rubs his hand up and don her back, probably thinking she's just cold.

"It's 11 and 16," she tells him after a little while.

"Huh?"

"I know how old my nephews are."

Owen lets out a short laugh, his breath tickling the skin of her cheek as she runs her fingers absently back and forth along the neck of his shirt. A comforting sound that vibrates across his body and into hers, and it makes something insides of her breaks a little, and she almost hates herself for feeling so safe and content in the aftermath of a tragedy and carnage and death. She has never seen so much death and blood before, and it seems like she's never going to be able to wash it off her skin.

"How long to we have before all hell breaks loose?"

"A few hours," Claire responds, and adds mentally, _If we're lucky_.

And if history is any indication, luck hasn't been on their side that much lately. For all she knows, her phones can start ringing any moment now. For all she knows, the hotel lobby is already packed with the cameras and the reporters ready to aim them at everything and everyone even remotely related to Masrani Global, and just thinking about it makes her wonder if maybe she should just drop dead right now and save them all a lot of trouble.

Owen nods.

"It's going to be ugly," Claire warns him, wincing a little at the idea. _Ugly_ is an understatement of the century.

"Fun things always are," he mumbles into her hair, and she can swear he totally believes it. "You're the bravest and the most courageous person I've ever met, Claire-"

"Which doesn't say much about the bravery of the US Navy."

He pokes her in the ribs, shaking his head, and then continues, "And when it's all over, I need to introduce you to someone."

"Really?" She pulls back, eyeing him suspiciously. "Who?"

"My good pals," Owen tells her with a straight face. "Chuck Taylors."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading :) Comments are always appreciated!

Is it 2018 yet?


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